


Bridging the Straight and Narrow

by alienlover13



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comedy, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Organized Crime, Pining, Romance, Suspense, Violence, mafia!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2018-11-16 06:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11248605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienlover13/pseuds/alienlover13
Summary: In a mafia-run universe that's gritty, dark, and mysterious, Harry, Ron, and Hermione break out the pistols and the pillywinks to keep their rival gang, the Death Eaters, at bay. With all the dangerous car chases, gunfights, pot-smoking, and coffee brewing, Harry's life is never boring. But what's a hitman to do when he's put at the mercy of his jaded former lover?





	1. Are You Going to Whack Him, or Am I?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to kawaiilo-ren for the inspiration and to dragons_chaotica for the beta!

“The govt. has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They’re coming” was all the text message said, but it was enough. With practiced ease, the Weasleys disbanded the wedding party amid the flurry of chaos. Harry didn’t have time to feel bitterness about the summer wedding being interrupted before Hermione was ushering him into the front seat of the car and putting it in reverse. 

“I already told you two, I can do this alone! You don’t have to come with me!”

“Shut up, Harry,” advised Ron. “It’s been decided for years that we’d be coming with you.” 

“But I’ve got the biggest target on my back because they’re going to link me with Knight. Your identities are still safe.”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” Hermione promised, sparing a half a second to pat Harry’s arm.

Ron stretched out across the back seat of the car and grappled for the bag of weapons stowed under the floorboards. “So do you want the Glock today, or the Sig Sauer?”

“Sig,” Harry responded, sighing in resignation. Ron passed the gun up to the front seat along with two spares and some extra ammo. Harry and Ron had been fully in favor of carrying underneath their dress clothes, but one look from Mrs. Weasley had them strapping down to the bare minimum on the weapons front. 

“Buckle up, Ron,” Hermione ordered, rotating around to look out the rear view window. Harry didn’t know why she bothered; there was nothing but scrubby, wilted grass to hit.

They roared out of the field behind the Burrow, bumping across the uneven ground, and headed out onto the main road, tires skidding over the gravel when Hermione didn't slow for the turn, much to Ron’s dismay.

“Jesus, Hermione,” Ron swore, hanging on for dear life in the backseat. They went the opposite way than they usually would have, roaring down the highway without abandon. 

“Did you _want_ to run into some of the Death Eaters?” Hermione snapped. “Remember what happened last time?”

Ron unconsciously gripped the bandages still covering the bullet wound on his left bicep. “Blimey, that’s not happening again! I told that bastard Dolohov what would happen the next time I saw him! Didn’t I, Harry?”

“You sure _told_ him,” Harry smirked. “But Dolohov’s kicked your ass every time we’ve run into those scoundrels this year.”

“Traitor.”

“I’m just telling it like it is.”

They continued down the highway, eventually pulling off on the exit for Harry’s favorite coffee shop. Probably because they only patronized the shop once every six months, he never tired of their selection. Other than one car in the parking lot, the place was deserted. But oddly enough, that one vehicle looked strangely familiar…

Hermione slammed on the brakes. “Is that them? Is that one of their cars?” 

Harry squinted out the window, Ron leaning up over the front council from the back in order to get a better view. 

“Looks like their car,” Harry confirmed. “Can’t tell which one of them it is, at least not from here.” 

“Why are we stopping?” asked Ron.

Harry glared at him; obviously, even if the coffee shop wasn’t open, what was to stop them from letting themselves in and making a quick cuppa?

“We have to take care of it,” Hermione answered. “They’re waiting; someone must have tipped them off! If they follow us, we’ll never get away.”

“Is this even their territory?” Harry asked.

“After all the recent expansions, I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Ron dryly, checking the safety on his favorite gun. 

“It’s neutral,” answered Hermione, hiding the car behind a long-since abandoned barbershop. “We can’t go into their territory, obviously, especially now that it’s fifteen-percent larger, but we have to stay out of ours too. That’s the first place they'll look for us.”

"We can't let those bastards get away with stealing our territory again!" Harry swore, hands curling into fists.

“So what’s the plan?” Ron said, pulling off his dress coat and shucking it into his bag. He rolled up his sleeves before strapping on his bullet vests, glad he’d had the foresight to restock all the ammo after their last shoot-out.

“I don’t think they’ve noticed us yet,” said Hermione. “If they did, we’d have been shot at already. Unzip me, Harry?” She turned around and lifted her hair, and Harry looked apologetically at Ron before reaching over and unzipping her dress.

“What are you doing?” Ron demanded.

Hermione huffed. “ _Honestly_ , Ron. Have you seen the bodice on this dress? I can hardly move, let alone shoot.”

Ron gaped, fish-like as he attempted to come up with a retort.

“Are you bringing the rifle?” Harry asked.

“Why on earth would we need a rifle, Harry?” Hermione asked, wriggling out of the dress.

“Were you going to cover me and Ron from a distance?”

“We haven’t done that for a like a month, why would we go back to it now?”

Harry shrugged. He made the mistake of looking at her before she was done changing and accidentally got an eyeful. Wincing, he quickly turned away. 

“Let’s go,” Hermione said, strapping on her own gear after she finished changing. She snatched her Glock from under the front seat and got out of the car, slamming the door behind her. 

Harry and Ron followed her out, clutching their favored weapons close, and, almost as an afterthought, Ron opened the trunk and pulled out their weapons duffle. Hidden behind the barbershop, they carefully eyed the amount of open space they were required to traverse before they could hide behind a closed dollar store. Harry knelt on the ground, near the clearing, ready to spring into action if need be, while Ron very carefully peered around the cement wall. 

“Nothing,” he said. “Sons of bitches are still in the car.”

Harry straightened up, and they quickly sprinted across the gap before disappearing again behind the abandoned dollar store; Harry wishing he had the foresight to change out of his dress shoes. It was muddy this time of year. There was one more store—a bakery—between them and the coffee shop, which was set off by itself a good ways away. Fortunately, the car was parked facing away from the bakery, pointed towards the main road. Harry was glad they hadn't driven in that way. 

They repeated the look-and-sprint process one more time, preparing to move in on the vehicle. Ron drew up the pair of binoculars hanging around his neck and counted the number of passengers. “Two goons, unless there’s more hiding in the back. But I don’t think so.”

“That’s not even one each,” said Hermione, disappointed.  

“If we can make this quick, let’s stop and get some coffee after,” Harry said.

“Harry, the coffee shop’s closed!”

He exchanged a look with Ron, one that definitely said they’d get some coffee afterward as long as no one was bleeding. 

Ignoring them, Hermione went back to the task at hand. “Those crumbling pillars over there—we should get in position behind them before approaching the car. You two can crawl over and I’ll act as backup.” They’d managed to work out a series of hand signals over the years, and Harry knew that Hermione was just itching to put them to good use.

“Do you smell that?” Harry asked suddenly. 

Ron snorted, disgusted. “Smoking weed on a job? It’s like they aren’t even taking it seriously,” he said. “Should we even bother? They’re probably too high to fight.”

“We’re here, we might as well take ‘em out,” Harry shrugged. 

“Fine, can’t we just shoot them from here, then?” 

Hermione gave him a scandalized expression. “Of course not, Ronald,” she scolded. “We aim to avoid firing our weapons whenever necessary, you know that!”

“Define ‘necessary,’” Ron grumbled, checking to make sure his gun was fully loaded. “Ready?”

“Ready,” chorused Harry and Hermione. 

With Hermione covering them with her Glock, they leapt out from behind the bakery and sprinted for the pillars. Harry came to a halt behind the one on the far left; Ron, the one on the far right. After seeing they made it safely, Hermione went for the one in the middle. They quickly caught their breath, stuffing guns into holsters on their legs before Hermione gave the “go” signal. 

Harry could have definitely wore better pants for this, not just better shoes. His dress slacks were going to quickly get holes in them from rubbing against the coarse cement. Ron was faring no better on the other side, but at least he’d had the foresight to change into some dark jeans. The potency of the smell increased as they neared the car doors; the windows were down, the men inside laughing.

Flat on his stomach, Harry met Ron’s eyes underneath the car. Ron’s signals were definitely less complicated than Hermione’s. He simply nodded once and then jerked his head up towards the car, a sign which Harry understood immediately. He counted with his fingers, embellishing with a point for each second that passed, and on three he and Ron both leapt to their feet outside the open windows. The shouts from the men within turned from surprise to anger, and the one in the driver’s seat was surprisingly quick to draw his gun and point it at Harry.

Unruffled, he formed an upside-down V on his thigh and Hermione shot out the back windshield. At this point, Ron had already disarmed the second man—a hefty blonde, Harry spared a half-second to note—and knocked him out with his own weapon. 

“Put the gun down, Dolohov,” Ron growled. “You shoot my friend, I’ll slice off your fingers and feed them to you, one by one.” He would do no such thing, especially with Hermione around, but the man didn’t need to know that. 

“Is that the wee little Weaselbee I hear?” Dolohov grunted, not taking his focus off of Harry. “How’s the arm?”

Harry didn’t have to look to see Ron’s face tighten with anger. “Is this your wife here?” he snarled, prodding the stout blonde with the barrel of his gun. “I’ve got the silencer on; can put him right out of his misery so he doesn’t have to deal with the likes of you!”

“Have at it,” Dolohov sneered. “I’ve got Knight right in my crosshairs; he’s the one Voldemort wants.”

“So he’s not your Dark Lord anymore?” asked Harry, distracting the Death Eater.

“I never thought he was dark to begin with,” said Dolohov coldly. “He’s running a strong business, making good deals for some of the rarest antiques in the world. But your lot wouldn’t know that, not with how you’re always trying to worm yourselves into the government—” Harry pounced, slugging him in the shoulder and ducking to avoid the discharge of his gun, which fired right through where his head had been just a millisecond before. Ron took the opportunity to shoot him in the knee, causing Dolohov to scream in pain, clutching it with his good arm. 

“You’re a bigger idiot than I thought if you actually believed for one second that Voldemort had a legitimate business.” Harry said. 

“Ha _s_ ,” hissed Dolohov, clutching his knee in a futile effort to stop the blood. 

“ _Could_ he sound more like Lucius Malfoy?” Ron groaned. 

“You know, I actually don’t think so,” Harry said, flexing his fingers in an attempt to work out some of the ache. He was much happier fighting with his guns; it hurt his extremities less in the long run. 

“Are you going to whack him, or am I?” Ron asked, plucking the joint out of the blonde’s lap and taking a hit. “Ah, you’ll want some of this too, Harry. It’s decent.”

“You can do the honors,” Harry said. He knew Ron owed Dolohov for the bullet wound that still hadn’t fully healed from last time, as much as he wanted to give Dolohov something to remember him by. 

Ron vaulted over the roof of the car, handing the joint to Harry before he pulled back his fist. “Lights out, fuckface.” He punched Dolohov harder than he would normally, ignoring the other man’s weak protest. 

“You better make sure they’re actually dead!” Hermione called reproachfully as she neared the car. “I _told_ you not to use your weapons, but no, Ronald, you had to go and turn it into a big production!”

Grumbling, Ron accepted another hit of the joint from Harry before reaching into his sack for a giant fluffy pillow. “But Harry socked him,” he protested before popping the lock and throwing open the door, dragging Dolohov out onto the harsh cement. “I don’t see why we can’t just run him over with the car,” he muttered under his breath.

“Because we’re better than that,” Hermione insisted, glaring at the joint Harry was currently smoking. “What about that one in the front seat?”

“Rowle?” Ron asked, placing the pillow over Dolohov’s face and pushing down hard. Harry noticed that he didn’t bother to check to make sure all the air pockets were out. “He still needs to be dealt with, but he’s better shape than this one here.” He kicked Dolohov's uninjured knee.

“Ron!” Hermione exclaimed. “Stop that!”

“Is there even an exit wound?” Harry asked, laughing. Everything seemed so much more amusing after a bit of weed… 

“Give me that,” Hermione snapped. “For Christ’s sake, I can’t leave the two of you alone for a minute!” 

“No exit wound. Dolohov would have a fun time with this one, you know, if he wasn’t pushing up daisies,” Ron said happily. He yanked the pillow off of Dolohov and checked for a pulse. “Nothing. You want to take care of Rowle, mate?”

“I suppose,” said Harry. “You did get all the good action today.” He reached into his bag and pulled out his silencer. “Unless you want to have at it, Hermione?”

“I’m enjoying the break, to be quite honest.”

Harry shrugged. He passed the joint back over to Ron before screwing the silencer onto his gun (it was standard sized to fit on all his favorites, should the need arise) and walking over to Rowle. 

“Maybe go for the heart instead of the brains today?” Ron suggested. “Cleaner.”

Harry couldn’t help snickering as he remembered what happened the last time he decided to shoot someone’s brains out in a car—only then, it was unfortunately _their_ car, and they weren’t done driving it. The mess was lamentable. He quickly put Rowle out of his misery, placing the gun against his chest and pulling the trigger. Blood streamed out of the bullet hole, running down the man’s suit and coalescing all around him in the car seat. Harry watched the patterns it made, transfixed. 

 “Coffee, Harry?” Ron asked loudly as Hermione snatched the joint out of his hand. Wisely, Ron decided to give it up as a lost cause. 

“Mm,” Harry agreed. “Maybe they have some pastries in there as well.” He reached into Ron’s bag and pulled out their set of lock picks. “Think we’ll need just the usual, or should I bring the whole set?”

“Might as well bring the whole set,” Ron shrugged. “Door’s only right over there.” They set off for the cafe, Harry carrying the entire set of lock picks between them. Neither one looked back to notice Hermione sneak a hit off of the joint before crushing it under her foot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think so far? Let me know if you liked it by leaving a comment and/or a kudos! :)


	2. A Regular Old Tart Fest

Lock picking was an easy task. At least it was for Harry, who’d spent half of his childhood picking the locks the Dursleys put on everything around the house. Ron was significantly less practiced. 

“You know,” Hermione said, after Ron had been poking around in the lock for ten minutes, “Breaking and entering is punishable by law. You could serve several years of prison time, just because you want a bloody cup of coffee!”

“It’d be worth it, too,” sniggered Ron, deserting the lock in frustration. “Here, Harry, you have a go.”

“‘Mione, you should probably wait in the car,” Harry advised her, jiggling the pick into the lock. “After all, you’d get thrown in the slammer, too.” He shared another look with Ron, and they barely managed to keep straight faces. 

Hermione pursed her lips. “Well, _obviously_ , Kingsley would have us out in no time, especially after that promotion he just got at the barrister’s office.” She shook her head as if to clear the thought from her mind. “But that’s not the point!” 

“There’s a point?” Ron asked skeptically. 

“With Hermione, there’s always a point,” Harry said. He continued to work at the lock with smooth, well-practiced motions. “Got it,” he said happily as the lock clicked. “But seriously, ‘Mione, what’s the point of being in the Mafia if we’re always on the straight and narrow?”

“Carpe diem, mate,” said Ron, pushing through the open door and turning on the light inside. “Cappuccinos or Americanos?”

“Definitely a strong Americano,” Harry answered. He already knew Ron’s order by heart, what with the number of times they grabbed coffee for one another during stakeouts. 

Hermione huffed. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that Order of the Phoenix was only created as a _response_ to the Death Eaters. It’s far from reputable, but the ends justify the means. But that does _not_ mean that we should act like a bunch of numbskull gangbangers!”

“Relax, ‘Mione, it’s just coffee,” Harry said reassuringly, ushering her inside. 

It wasn’t hard to amble over to the machines and start turning them on, one by one. Ron filled them with water before adding the necessary ingredients to the espresso machine and firing it up. Soon, the smell of brewing coffee filled the air, and Harry heard Hermione take a deep breath, savoring the aroma.

“Tea, ‘Mione?” Ron asked, passing two shots of espresso over to Harry, who started assembling their drinks. 

“Well—maybe just one—it probably wouldn’t hurt anything,” Hermione relented. “But I want a chai latte with extra cinnamon and whipped cream.”

Ron rolled his eyes as he turned on the tea kettle. “Anything else, your majesty?”

“Those pastries do look really tasty!” exclaimed Hermione. There were day-old croissants, danishes, cannolis, and treacle tarts wrapped in saran wrap on the counter, clearly labeled to be put out first thing tomorrow morning. “A croissant would do nicely with my tea…”

“Dibs on the treacle tart,” said Harry, pouring the last of the steamed milk into Ron’s cappuccino. 

“Hey, wait, no fair!” Ron cried, upsetting the kettle in his haste. 

“You’re getting caramel in your drink if you even think about touching my tart,” threatened Harry, weapon in hand.

“Haven’t you two learned how to share the tart by now?” Hermione asked innocently, an act that Harry saw right through.

“Ha, ha, ‘Mione,” said Ron, bitterly pouring chai mix in with the milk. “Though I guess Harry is welcome to it; then he can have a regular old tart fest.”

Harry licked his lips suggestively, and Ron cringed. Hermione wisely chose to disguise her laugh as a cough. “Isn’t that latte ready yet?” she asked, pulling back the saran wrap and removing one of the croissants. 

Wordlessly, Ron passed Hermione her latte before retrieving his (mercifully caramel-free) drink from Harry. They sipped in silence, Ron occasionally sending Harry a grumpy look from across the counter. When Harry went to slip the treacle tart out of the wrap, Ron gave him puppy-dog eyes, and Harry sighed loudly and gave in, passing half of the tart over. Ron eagerly took a bite, savoring the rich flavors. 

“Pass me a cannoli, ‘Mione,” Harry said a minute later, “Since I had to share with this whiny mooch.” She passed him the biggest, freshest one, and he stuffed it into his mouth, eyes closing in delight. 

“I hope you choke on your cannoli, Harry,” Ron said savagely, still working on the tart. 

“He hopes he’ll choke on it too,” said Hermione without missing a beat, grinning wildly.

Ron choked, spraying treacle tart crumbs all over the clean counter. Harry pounded him on the back, snickering. “Ron loves all the cannolis, ‘Mione,” he said knowingly, raising his eyebrows suggestively. 

Every time they tried to quiet themselves, Harry would make a crude gesture or Hermione would attempt to look at Ron sympathetically, and then they’d be off again. 

As Ron sat there, shaking his head, Harry took the opportunity to lap up some of the filling that had escaped out the side of the pastry shell. 

“That’s right, Harry, lick up that cream,” rasped Hermione, wiping her eyes.

“I hate both of you,” Ron wheezed, trying to catch his breath. “What did I do to deserve being the butt of all these dick jokes?”

Harry caught Hermione’s eye before bursting out laughing, Hermione slapping the counter in her mirth. Ron’s face reddened, and he took a sip of coffee to cover his embarrassment. “Don’t even say it!” he exclaimed a moment later. “I don’t want to hear any more!” 

Harry opened his mouth to make another snappy retort, but Ron quickly stuffed his fingers in his ears and shouted, “I’m not listening!”

The sound of a loud bang sobered them all. The explosion quickly filled the air with a putrid smelling gas, and Harry knew they had seconds to get into the fresh air. 

“Shit,” Hermione hissed. “I forgot that Snatchers were lurking in neutral areas. It’s got to be part of Voldemort’s expansion."

“Which is pretty rich of him, seeing as we still hold more territory overall,” muttered Ron. 

“Shut up!” Harry angrily whispered. If only there was a window around to open… Lightheadedness passed over him, and his efforts to stay conscious were rendered useless as he fell to the ground, treacle tart crumbs scattered around him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tarts, cannolis, or both? Let me know in a comment below XD


	3. A Taste of the Pillywinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry updates have been so sporadic! I got a new job and am working full-time, so I'm tired *all* the time. It's ridiculous. Anyway, enjoy!

The sun was bright in Harry’s eyes when he awoke, laying out on the concrete gravel not far from where they’d taken out Dolohov and Rowle earlier that day. Pain lanced through his lower back, and he realized his arms were bound behind him, and that the sensation was coming from his own knuckles digging into his skin. 

“You think that they’re with the Order?” one of their captors rasped at the other. His teeth were gray and gunky, and Harry could only hope they weren’t coming anywhere near him. 

“How the bleedin’ ‘ell should I know?” the other roared back. Harry noticed that his teeth were cleaner, but he had giant sweat stains under his armpits, which weren’t any more appealing. “They don’t come with name tags, now do they?!”

“They'll pay a pretty penny for these three, they will,” crooned Rotten Teeth. 

“We’ve already established that!” hollered Sweat Stains. “Assuming they’re actually in the Order.”

“Wait just a minute,” said Rotten Teeth, tapping his head. “What if—what if these three are actually the members of the Black Triad?”

“We’ve got to be  _ sure  _ before we call ‘em, this time,” replied Sweat Stains. “We ain’t out for a repeat of last time.”

Rotten Teeth shuddered. “We sure ain’t.”

Harry took a second to consider his surroundings. Ron was bound a little farther away, Hermione on his left. They both looked uninjured, at least as far as Harry could tell from his place on the ground. If he could just reach the knife that was in his back pocket, he could have these zip ties cut in an instant, and they could make a bid for freedom…

There was the dull roar of a motor, and from the ground, Harry watched a grimy black car drive past, presumably to park somewhere out of sight behind the coffee shop. He didn’t see the driver, but whoever it was, they were definitely going to worsen the situation. The car door slammed, boots crunching on loose gravel as the figure approached. 

“What did you lunatics turn up this time?” grunted a voice. Harry inwardly groaned, recognizing it as belong to infamous pedophile Fenrir Greyback, menace to society and one of Voldemort’s lousy dogs.

“What are you following us around for?” whined Rotten Teeth. “If we was sure we ‘ad something, we w’uld’ve called you!”

“I’ll be the judge of that now,” grunted Greyback. “You there! Ginger!” He kicked Ron in the ribs. “You in the Order of the Phoenix?”

“What?” Ron winced. “What’s the Order of the Phoenix?”

“What territory you in, Ginger?” 

“I think we’re somewhere in Springfield?” choked Ron. Harry could see him struggling aimlessly to get his hands free. 

“You know how to play dumb, I’ll give you that,” Greyback amended. He shoved Ron over onto his stomach.“What do you do for a living, Princess?” he asked, turning to where Hermione was sprawled out on the ground. 

Hermione fought to sit up, and Harry was impressed that she succeeded. “I work in a law library at the local university,” she said unwaveringly. 

“Is that true?” Greyback demanded. Ron nodded furiously, nose an inch away from the cement. “What do you do in this law library?”

“I help students do research.” 

“She does look like a total bookworm, boss,” Rotten Teeth said helpfully.

“Shut up, you bloody moron! I can see how bookish and pasty she is without any help from the peanut gallery!” He emphasized the sentiment by giving Hermione a vicious kick to the stomach. She instantly curled up into a ball, bound arms sticking out, and vomited, somehow still cogent enough to keep the fluids away from her body. Harry bristled with anger, longing to free his fists and take a swing at Greyback.

“Give those two idiots a taste of the pillywinks,” he ordered Rotten Teeth and Sweat Stains. With an evil--disgusting--grin, Rotten Teeth clapped Sweat Stains on the back as they straightened up and marched across the parking lot, heading for the trunk of Greyback’s car. Turning his attention to Harry, Greyback stroked his chin. “Interesting features,” he grunted. “Reminds me of someone who goes by the name of ‘Knight’ and who’s said to be the black hand of the Order.”

Harry said nothing, anger curdling in his gut. 

“Let’s see you up close, boy,” Greyback demanded, crudely grasping Harry’s jaw and turning him this way and that. Harry spat at him, and Greyback swiftly backhanded him. “Hmm,” he said, as though nothing had happened, “Green eyes, black hair. You’re looking too much like Potter for your own good, handsome.” Greyback’s eyes lingered on his face just a little too long, and Harry had to suppress a shudder. 

“Say, Ginger.” Greyback said, almost as an afterthought, “Potter’s known to have two companions. The King and Queen. Cliche, if you ask me. Who thought up those names, anyway?” He suddenly pinned Harry’s lower body, holding him down so that he couldn’t kick or struggle. “I can’t wait to do some further investigation,” Greyback murmured, running a grubby hand down Harry’s thigh. From the corner of his eye, Harry could see Hermione flailing around, as if she had gotten free. There was more movement, and he could only assume that she was freeing Ron.

But there was too much noise coming from the area, and Greyback had several fully-loaded weapons in grabbing distance. This was their chance to escape, and he couldn’t let it go to waste. Harry let out an obscene whimper, commanding Greyback’s attention, and, from the looks of it, arousing him. Revulsion spread throughout his entire body, but Harry managed to give Greyback an inviting glance, taking advantage of the loosened hold to spread his legs wider… 

BANG. Harry jumped at the noise, startled further by the blood running down Greyback’s face and neck. He’d been shot in the back of the head, the bullet exiting through his right eye. Greyback blinked at Harry with what was left of it before crumpling to the ground, dead. Twenty feet away, Hermione lowered her Glock, breathing heavily as she briskly strode towards Harry. Ron was in the distance, disabling Rotten Teeth in hand-to-hand combat. While he was occupied, Sweat Stains pulled out a cell phone and dialed a number. 

“We need to leave,” Hermione murmured, cutting Harry’s ties with swift, sure movements. “Immediately.”

Ron knocked Rotten Teeth unconscious, pulling out his gun to shoot Sweat Stains point-blank, but the damage had already been done. He discharged a bullet into Rotten Teeth too, for good measure, and then joined Harry and Hermione in hauling ass back to their car. 

“Sweat Stains has probably already called half the Death Eaters and given them our location,” Harry huffed as Hermione continued to half-drag him, flobber-footed, past the abandoned bakery, past the deserted dollar store, and past the long-closed barbershop until they reached the car

“Sweat Stains?” Ron asked, smirking. 

“You know, the guy you just took out?”

“Clever, Harry, whadja call the other--”

“Get in,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes as she opened the back door and shoving Harry inside. She wasted no time revving the ending and squealing out of the parking lot, Ron pulling out the big guns in the front seat. 

“Can you shoot, Harry?” he asked.

“When can I  _ not  _ shoot?” 

“Mate, just shut up and get your weapons out!” 

He swallowed a retort and reached for the emergency automatics they had hidden under the seat cushions. There were already two cars on their tail now, even back on the main road, and Harry wasted no time trying to shoot their tires out from their already-shattered back windshield. 

“Can you see who's back there?” called Hermione, steering so viciously around a pothole that Harry lost his balance. 

“Mulciber and Nott in the first car,” Harry reported. And then, feeling his stomach drop, “The Carrow siblings in the second.” Overcome with sudden anger, he shot furiously at the Carrows’ tires, punching a victorious fist in the air when he took out their left front tire and the car went careening off into the ditch.

“We’ve got company on the left side,” said Hermione. 

“On it,” said Ron. Harry could hear his favorite gun, the one he'd received from his father on his seventeenth birthday, firing loudly. 

“Is that Rookwood?” Hermione asked, speeding up in order to get out of immediate firing range.

“He was supposed to be in Azkaban,” Harry snapped. 

Ron snorted. “Most of the guards have been playing the Death Eaters and the Order off each other for years.”

“Those sons of bitches are going to pay,” Harry said grimly. He turned his attention back to shooting out Mulciber’s and Nott’s tires.

Hermione screamed. A car had just pulled out of a clearing and headed towards them, head-on. With one car behind them and one to the left side, the only way she could skid was to the right. At that exact moment, the Mulciber-Nott car launched a Molotov cocktail at them, not knowing that their comrades had just approached from the opposite direction. By about ten feet, Harry, Ron, and Hermione missed being blown to smithereens. Rookwood’s car wasn’t so lucky. It exploded on contact, shrapnel and flames flying wildly into the surrounding area. Hermione swerved wildly to avoid one of the larger fragments, a telephone pole swiping the side of their car and sending it into a fish-tailing spin. They skidded to a stop--weapons shuffling around and falling on the floor, Harry picking himself up off of the backseat from where he’d been knocked over--and sat there, motionlessly, in a moment of silence, letting everything settle. 

All of the sudden, smoke started trailing out from under the hood. Crackling soon followed, along with some grinding and shifting noises that seemed be coming from the engine. A pungent, burning scent filled Harry’s lungs. “Get out!” he shouted. “It’s going to blow!”

They scrambled for the doors, Hermione and Ron throwing open the ones in the front while Harry made it out the back. He made sure that they were both clear before sprinting away from the car, spinning around just as it exploded, flames and pieces of metal filling the air. Fortunately, they were out of range, so the projectiles landed in front of them, harmless. Harry vaguely discerned Ron swearing about the burned weapons before passing out to the strangely-comforting sound of their car burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering, YES, Draco will be making his appearance in the next chapter :) Stay tuned! XD


	4. My Son is Not a Faggot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters after this one :)

Harry was being dragged, hefty figures on both sides heaving him along. Thank God for the breeze; it sure felt nice on his sweaty face. Were those white peacocks eating out of a dog bowl? Clearly Harry was hallucinating. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the urge to close them overcame him until he fell back into unconsciousness once more. 

“Why, it does appear to be wee little Potter!” Harry groaned. His head hurt and this shrill voice wasn’t helping.

“Wake up, Potty!” There was a cackle, and he blearily opened his eyes to be met with the manically insane face of Bellatrix Lestrange. “Oh, yes,” she said reverently, drawing out the word. “My Lord will be incredibly happy to see you.” She reached toward Harry’s throat, fingers twitching as if imagining how he would look gasping for air… 

“Bella!” 

Bellatrix retracted her hand immediately, turning around to glare at the interruption. “What do you want, Cissy?” 

“We have to know for sure that’s Potter before we can torture the boy,” Narcissa said, arranging herself on one of the burgundy armchairs tastefully situated just-so. They seemed to be in a drawing room of some sort; the ceilings were high, arched with a crisp particularity that made the space seem cold and unforgiving. Paintings of grizzled ancestors were the only decorations adorning the walls. For all the surrounding splendor, it seemed to be a very impersonal room indeed. 

Another figure entered the room, but from his vantage point, Harry couldn’t tell who it was. He didn’t have to wait in suspense for long. 

“Draco!” Bellatrix commanded, ignoring her sister’s weak protests, “You went to school with Potter for years, did you not?” 

Harry’s stomach leapt.  _ Draco  _ was here. Draco, who’d been forced to break Harry’s heart when his father summoned him home from school over a month early. 

“I did,” Draco said, in as noncommittal a voice as Harry had ever heard him use. “He looks nothing like Potter.”

“Go to him, Draco!” said Narcissa, stepping in again. “Surely you’ve seen him on campus before, perhaps even talked with him!”

“From what I’ve heard, that’s not all Draco’s done with him!” Bellatrix said with a vicious glee. “Sleeping with the enemy, and a man to boot!” 

There was the blunt sound of a walking stick hitting the floor, and they all looked up to see the arrival of Lucius Malfoy, hair tied severely back. “My son is not a faggot,” he said, lip slightly curling. “Draco, do as your mother told you.”

To say Harry had understood why Draco chose to return back home with his father would be an understatement, so as Draco approached, Harry regarded him with scarcely-contained disdain. 

“Touch me and I’ll kill you, Malfoy,” Harry hissed under his breath as Draco knelt before him. 

Draco blocked Lucius’s, Narcissa’s, and Bellatrix’s view with his body, meeting Harry’s eyes without any trace of bitterness they’d ended on present there. Something passed between them, then, and Harry made the spur of the moment decision not to resist Draco’s advances. He slowly reached out with his hand and touched Harry’s face gently, more gently than Harry had expected, and looked him over with an unreadable, but suspiciously soft expression. As soon as Harry started to enjoy the caress, it was gone; Draco turning back around to face his family.

“This is not Potter,” he said firmly, looking at Lucius. 

“Are you quite sure?” demanded Bellatrix. “Check again!”

Lucius bristled. “My son is no fool; surely he would know the man he went to boarding school with for six years!”

“And was probably fucking, too!” Bellatrix cackled. Lucius made to silence her until Narcissa gave him a look. 

“What do we do now?” she asked worriedly. “We can’t take him to the Dark Lord, not if he isn’t Potter.”

“The boy will remain here,” Lucius said, still angry. “He can join the other guests in the basement. Draco, get him situated.”

“Get up,” Draco said, gesturing for him to get up and follow him down an adjoining corridor. Harry had only taken three steps into the hallway, which was minimally lit, compared to the drawing room, before the door closed and they were plunged into near darkness. He accidentally rammed into Draco, who’d stopped without warning.

“Ouch, Malfoy!”

“Shh, Potter!”

“What are we—”

“Potter, shut up!”

Harry stood still and closed his mouth, unwilling to cross Draco at this exact moment. Draco pressed his ear to the door and listened closely for a few minutes. 

Finally, he reached out and grabbed Harry’s arm. “Let’s go.” They went back into the deserted drawing room, and then Draco opened up the door to another corridor and pulled Harry into a run. They reached a slight alcove just before Lucius walked by again, leaving just enough time for Draco to shove Harry into an adjoining alcove and press a cold, pale hand over his mouth. After Lucius was safely out of sight, Draco pulled Harry down the rest of the hallway and through another door. He immediately strode over to a wardrobe and started rummaging through the drawers. Harry realized, even though the surroundings were dark, that this was Draco’s bedroom. 

“What are we doing?” Harry asked, looking around the room.

“You look like a grimy rat,” Draco said. He shoved some clothes into Harry’s arms. “Change, already, before you drip filth all over my floor.” He unconsciously rubbed his arm as he waited, right over where Harry knew the Dark Mark had been etched into his forearm.

Shivering, Harry disrobed quickly, tossing his clothes into a pile. Draco huffed. “For Christ’s sakes, Potter, I know you weren’t raised in a barn!”

“Where did you want me to put them, Malfoy?”

“In the hamper.” As Harry bent to pick them up, Draco rolled his eyes. “Forget it. Just get on with it already.” He snatched up the dirty clothes himself, rolling them up in a tight ball before burying them down at the bottom of the laundry basket.

The clothes Draco had selected for him were practical and not at all what Harry had been expecting. Instead of the fancy, pleated slacks and silk shirts he was so fond of wearing, Draco had given Harry a plain black shirt, a black jacket, and dark jeans. Honestly, Harry didn’t know that Draco actually  _ owned  _ jeans. They fit him well, regardless; something else he wasn’t expecting. 

He finished re-doing the laces of his shoes and straightened up, only to find Draco carefully looking him over, expression still quite unreadable. 

“Did I not zip my fly?” he asked finally, after a moment of silence.

“You look fine, Potter,” Draco said briskly. “Come on.” He led the way out of his bedroom, down another adjoining corridor—Harry was thoroughly lost now—and through a secret passage. They ended up in a wet catacomb-like area, and Draco was openly running again, Harry hot on his tail.

“Malfoy—” he ventured, ignoring the pressure in his lungs.

“We don’t have much time!” Draco snapped. “For once in your life, just do as you’re told and stop thinking of questions!”

Properly chastised, Harry turned his brain off and followed Draco as he continued to move throughout the underbelly of the house. He didn't know where they were going or why, but he trusted Draco, and for now, that was enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of the interactions between Draco and Harry? Leave me a comment below :)


	5. Did I Not Zip My Fly?

Harry was being dragged, hefty figures on both sides heaving him along. Thank God for the breeze; it sure felt nice on his sweaty face. Were those white peacocks eating out of a dog bowl? Clearly Harry was hallucinating. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the urge to close them overcame him until he fell back into unconsciousness once more. 

“Why, it does appear to be wee little Potter!” Harry groaned. His head hurt and this shrill voice wasn’t helping.

“Wake up, Potty!” There was a cackle, and he blearily opened his eyes to be met with the manically insane face of Bellatrix Lestrange. “Oh, yes,” she said reverently, drawing out the word. “My Lord will be incredibly happy to see you.” She reached toward Harry’s throat, fingers twitching as if imagining how he would look gasping for air… 

“Bella!” 

Bellatrix retracted her hand immediately, turning around to glare at the interruption. “What do you want, Cissy?” 

“We have to know for sure that’s Potter before we can torture the boy,” Narcissa said, arranging herself on one of the burgundy armchairs tastefully situated just-so. They seemed to be in a drawing room of some sort; the ceilings were high, arched with a crisp particularity that made the space seem cold and unforgiving. Paintings of grizzled ancestors were the only decorations adorning the walls. For all the surrounding splendor, it seemed to be a very impersonal room indeed. 

Another figure entered the room, but from his vantage point, Harry couldn’t tell who it was. He didn’t have to wait in suspense for long. 

“Draco!” Bellatrix commanded, ignoring her sister’s weak protests, “You went to school with Potter for years, did you not?” 

Harry’s stomach leapt.  _ Draco  _ was here. Draco, who’d been forced to break Harry’s heart when his father summoned him home from school over a month early. 

“I did,” Draco said, in as noncommittal a voice as Harry had ever heard him use. “He looks nothing like Potter.”

“Go to him, Draco!” said Narcissa, stepping in again. “Surely you’ve seen him on campus before, perhaps even talked with him!”

“From what I’ve heard, that’s not all Draco’s done with him!” Bellatrix said with a vicious glee. “Sleeping with the enemy, and a man to boot!” 

There was the blunt sound of a walking stick hitting the floor, and they all looked up to see the arrival of Lucius Malfoy, hair tied severely back. “My son is not a faggot,” he said, lip slightly curling. “Draco, do as your mother told you.”

To say Harry had understood why Draco chose to return back home with his father would be an understatement, so as Draco approached, Harry regarded him with scarcely-contained disdain. 

“Touch me and I’ll kill you, Malfoy,” Harry hissed under his breath as Draco knelt before him. 

Draco blocked Lucius’s, Narcissa’s, and Bellatrix’s view with his body, meeting Harry’s eyes without any trace of bitterness they’d ended on present there. Something passed between them, then, and Harry made the spur of the moment decision not to resist Draco’s advances. He slowly reached out with his hand and touched Harry’s face gently, more gently than Harry had expected, and looked him over with an unreadable, but suspiciously soft expression. As soon as Harry started to enjoy the caress, it was gone; Draco turning back around to face his family.

“This is not Potter,” he said firmly, looking at Lucius. 

“Are you quite sure?” demanded Bellatrix. “Check again!”

Lucius bristled. “My son is no fool; surely he would know the man he went to boarding school with for six years!”

“And was probably fucking, too!” Bellatrix cackled. Lucius made to silence her until Narcissa gave him a look. 

“What do we do now?” she asked worriedly. “We can’t take him to the Dark Lord, not if he isn’t Potter.”

“The boy will remain here,” Lucius said, still angry. “He can join the other guests in the basement. Draco, get him situated.”

“Get up,” Draco said, gesturing for him to get up and follow him down an adjoining corridor. Harry had only taken three steps into the hallway, which was minimally lit, compared to the drawing room, before the door closed and they were plunged into near darkness. He accidentally rammed into Draco, who’d stopped without warning.

“Ouch, Malfoy!”

“Shh, Potter!”

“What are we—”

“Potter, shut up!”

Harry stood still and closed his mouth, unwilling to cross Draco at this exact moment. Draco pressed his ear to the door and listened closely for a few minutes. 

Finally, he reached out and grabbed Harry’s arm. “Let’s go.” They went back into the deserted drawing room, and then Draco opened up the door to another corridor and pulled Harry into a run. They reached a slight alcove just before Lucius walked by again, leaving just enough time for Draco to shove Harry into an adjoining alcove and press a cold, pale hand over his mouth. After Lucius was safely out of sight, Draco pulled Harry down the rest of the hallway and through another door. He immediately strode over to a wardrobe and started rummaging through the drawers. Harry realized, even though the surroundings were dark, that this was Draco’s bedroom. 

“What are we doing?” Harry asked, looking around the room.

“You look like a grimy rat,” Draco said. He shoved some clothes into Harry’s arms. “Change already, before you drip filth all over my floor.” He unconsciously rubbed his arm as he waited, right over where Harry knew the Dark Mark had been etched into his forearm.

Shivering, Harry disrobed quickly, tossing his clothes into a pile. Draco huffed. “For Christ’s sakes, Potter, I know you weren’t raised in a barn!”

“Where did you want me to put them, Malfoy?”

“In the hamper.” As Harry bent to pick them up, Draco rolled his eyes. “Forget it. Just get on with it already.” He snatched up the dirty clothes himself, rolling them up in a tight ball before burying them down at the bottom of the laundry basket.

The clothes Draco had selected for him were practical and not at all what Harry had been expecting. Instead of the fancy, pleated slacks and silk shirts he was so fond of wearing, Draco had given Harry a plain black shirt, a black jacket, and dark jeans. Honestly, Harry didn’t know that Draco actually  _ owned  _ jeans. They fit him well, regardless; something else he wasn’t expecting. 

He finished re-doing the laces of his shoes and straightened up, only to find Draco carefully looking him over, expression still quite unreadable. 

“Did I not zip my fly?” he asked finally, after a moment of silence.

“You look fine, Potter,” Draco said briskly. “Come on.” He led the way out of his bedroom, down another adjoining corridor—Harry was thoroughly lost now—and through a secret passage. They ended up in a wet catacomb-like area, and Draco was openly running again, Harry hot on his tail.

“Malfoy—” he ventured, ignoring the pressure in his lungs.

“We don’t have much time!” Draco snapped. “For once in your life, just do as you’re told and stop thinking of questions!”

Properly chastised, Harry turned his brain off and followed Draco as he continued to move throughout the underbelly of the house. He didn't know where they were going or why, but he trusted Draco, and for now, that was enough. Finally, after another ten minutes, they ended up in a wine cellar. Draco fumbled around for the trapdoor—an actual  _ trapdoor _ —and pushed it open, letting the sunlight stream in from outside. 

“Alright, Potter,” said Draco, swallowing hard. “Our fun has come to an end. After I boost you out of this hole, you're going to turn right and make for the river. There’s a bridge not even a half-mile from here, and when you reach the other side, you’ll be back in neutral territory. Not before. So don’t try and signal Granger or the Weasel until you’re off Manor grounds  _ completely _ .”

“Why are you doing this, Malfoy?” Harry blurted out, unable to leave without answers. 

Draco closed his eyes. “Isn’t it obvious, Potter?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more to go! :)


End file.
